Premortem
by Narubleach-chan
Summary: Dr. John Watson wakes up in Bismilah Rehabilitation Center, with no memory of how he got there, and a Moriarty playing innocent. The only way John can leave is if the doctors confirm he is "fixed, and "remembers". But with the crazy patients, and inconvenient happenings, John isn't so sure he can ever leave.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Will I ever see you again, Sherlock?" You could hear a slight tremor in the man's voice when he asked this. Sherlock stared out the window of the familiar flat.

"That depends on you." John bit his lip, and nodded, closing his eyes. He could feel his surroundings fade, like they usually do when he lets go of his dreams. "Goodbye, for now." He whispered, feeling like he let part of himself drift away. John jolted awake from the weary dream. His crusty eyes opening to a white ceiling. John winced, as if the light was penetrating his eyes. His hands instinctively move from his sides to his face, rubbing his tired eyes.

"What?" He muttered, his voice scratchy from his somber. John propped himself on his elbows, and observed his surroundings. He was laying on a bed, with gray blankets over him. The room he was in was white, a bright white that stained his eyes. There were other beds, lined up against the wall, with others sleeping in them. John took a breath in and sat up.

"What. . . Is this?" He asked no one in particular. He could hear bodies shifting in their beds, and the faint breathing of the strangers. He let his hand move to scratch confused head, when there was a knock on a door.

"Anyone awake in there?" A muffled voice traveled through the door. John cringed, the abrupt noise making his head pound. John slid off his bed and tiptoed to the door, hoping not to wake anyone or hurt his now pounding head. The floors were coated with dust, wood, and cold. The sensational feeling made John's bare feet tingle. He made his way to the door and rested his hand on the golden knob. One would turn the knob, and answer. But John was debating on this. Whether or not to trust the voice on the other side of the door. John's grip tightened, and slowly he turned the knob.

"Good morning!" The person exclaimed. John cringed to the loud response. "Good morning?" He muttered, looking down. The human was female. And she wore a long white doctor coat, her hair was braided, brown and long.

"I'm Dr. Loranne. Welcome to Bismilah Rehabilitation Center John." She said with a wide smile, not taking any caution to the others sleeping. John's gaze moved slowly up to meet her face. "Re. . . Rehabilitation Center?" He asked. The Doctor nodded, her smiling unchanging.

John shook his head. "No. No. I don't need any rehabilitation, m'am." He told her, with quite a bit of annoyance smearing over him. The woman looked at the clipboard in her hand and read through.

"Says here you have no memory, and you feel lost. Someone needs a fixing." John shook his head once again, and the pain only increased. "I'm not broken!" He exclaimed, and raised his left hand to comfort his throbbing temple. The doctor giggled a bit and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. John jerked back.

"Doctor, just calm down. We want to help you." She told him, her happy, giggly expression gone. John looked up at her, not sure what to say. His mind overflowing with questions, confusion, want. "Is this a dream? This has got to be a dream."

"You should just go lay back down, and we're bring you some medicine for that migraine." She said softly; turning swiftly down the extensive hall and writing something in her clipboard. John, being the man that he is, ignored her orders and waited for her to be out of sight. He looked back into the room of somber, to see no one else had awoken. John took in a breath and stepped out the door and into the white hall. Doors lined the hall on either side, with different labels. John walked slowly, keeping his observations up. The blue labels read things such as, "New Patients", "Disability", "Low Self Esteem". John was baffled, and couldn't recall what kind of rehabilitation center this was.

"Let go of me you bastard!" I female voice screamed through the hall, and John jumped, craning his neck to see where the scream came from. "I said let go!" The scream was piercing, and John refrained from moaning from the pain in his head. He stood in the hall, debating with himself whether he should just go back or not. "You new here?"

John jerked his head in the direction of the voice. "Seems like you are." Jim Moriarty stood on the other side of the hall, wearing jeans and a polo. John could feel anger swell up in him. "Moriarty." He said through his teeth. Jim looked at him with an expression of confusion.

"I'm sorry? Did I say something?" He asked. His innocence was unbelievable, as if he hadn't known anything was wrong.

"_Say _something wrong!?" John yelled at the top of his lungs and jolted toward him, grabbing the collar of his shirt. "You are going to pay for what you do to Sherlock!" John yelled, spit coming from his mouth and onto Moriarty's face. Moriarty looked upon him with fear. "I- I don't know what you're talking about. Seriously. I was just trying to welcome you!" Jim cried. "I don't even know who this Sherlock is!" It was hard for John to believe anything he said. To John, every word that came from his mouth was a deceiving lie.

"What is this place!? Why am I here?" John asked him, his grip only tightening. Jim shook his head. "I don't know. I just got here. I seriously have no idea. I'm clueless just like you. If you let go, maybe we could find out together?" Moriarty was shaking in John's clutches now. "FIne." He said, letting go and walking the other way.

"I don't know what's going on." He moaned, falling to his knees on the cold floor. "I don't know what to think anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John kept his faced pressed to the cold ground, and tried to block out his surroundings. He really felt lost, and confused. This had to be a dream. Nothing else.

"Hello?" Moriarty asked. "Are you okay? Please tell me you're not crazy." John sat up and let his eyes move to Moriarty, who was bent down looking at him with concern. Moriarty. If this was a dream, why could it not be Sherlock? Why can't he be Sherlock, asking him if he is okay? Showing concern like he used to do. Sitting there, telling him why he is so lost just by a glance.

John nodded, pushing the want and need away. "Yeah, yeah just fine." Moriarty smiled and stood up. John stood as well, and brushed off his pajama pants. "I don't even know what this place is. Apparently a rehabilitation center?" He said this with no certainty, only confusion. He wasn't sure if he could believe that woman. Nothing here in this dreadful place seemed right. Not the air, the ground, Moriarty, or even himself. He was so uncertain of everything; he believed things to be a lie.

Moriarty simply shrugged. "Beats me, I just woke up here. I want to go somewhere else." John could say the same thing for himself. But there was no point fretting over what he had no control of.

"Okay. . . Moriarty." It was hard for him to let the name slip from his lips without wanting to punch him. There was something wrong with Jim. He was different. It could be another "Richard Brooks", or he could really be different. Though, Jim is acting as if he doesn't even know John. Both of which was strange.

"Let's find what's up with this place. Kill some time." Moriarty nodded with a smile. The two of them walked around aimlessly, not saying a word. John was too angry to say anything to him, and frightened. This was a strange rehabilitation center. People were screaming everywhere, shaking in their beds, doctors fighting with them, women crying in their sheets. John hadn't known what to think of any of it. In a way, he kind of enjoyed it, he wanted to jump in at any moment. Like the whole place was a battlefield, and he just needed to make his move. One move and his life could end, begin, or even move forward.

"I saw it." John stopped at this, this one line uttered from a man sitting in his room, talking to a doctor. "Saw what?" A doctor asked him, tempted, and curious.

"Him. The tall man. With the violin." The patient was shaking, and his eyes were trained somewhere else. John swerved on his feet and looked into the open door, his curiosity and longing taking over him.

"He had a violin? Was he playing it?" The doctor asked. The patient nodded, and a smile speckled over his lips. "Beautifully. And. . .his expression. . . Like he was deep in thought." John bit his lip, and almost thought about asking more. What if the man knew Sherlock? What if there was a connection? John stopped his hopes from going too high up. This couldn't be possible. A lot of people play the violin. And this is a dream for Christ's sake. What would it matter? Sherlock is still dead, and he is still lost without him.

"Something wrong?" Moriarty asked John, who was still staring into the room, his mouth agape. "Nothing, just, got a little distracted is all." He told him, turning back and forgetting the man.

"There you are!" Doctor Lorraine exclaimed as she ran up to them. "I've been searching everywhere for you Dr. Watson. I told you to lie back down. If you don't remember." John let out a sigh of annoyance. "Listen, I don't have time for this right now." He told her, as he began to walk around. Dr. Lorraine grabbed him by the arm.

"And just where do you think you're going?" She asked. John flexed his jaw while glaring at her. "Anywhere but here." He jerked his arm away and continued walking.

Dr. Lorraine shook her head in disappointment. "There is nowhere else, Doctor. Only here. Then, you go to where you belong once you are ready." John turned back to look at Dr. Lorraine. "And how can I be fixed?" This was a question he had always been asking himself. How he could have been fixed from Afghanistan, from his want, from the loss of Sherlock. He had always wanted to know how to solve this, how to be happy without Sherlock, or the battlefield.

"That is up to you." John bit his lip, his mind traveling back to the dream he had only a few minutes ago. If it were up to him, he would fix himself right there. But that needs help.

"Okay. You can help me." He agreed, realizing there was really nothing else he could do. Dr. Lorraine smiled and motioned the other way.

"And you, Mr. Moriarty. You are wanted in room 36B, some counseling to see what intrigued your boredom." She told him, ripping a piece of paper and handing it to him. "Good luck finding it."

John began rubbing his palms together while following the woman back to the room he woke in. "There are other patients, new, like you are. Don't get use to them, we need to find someone for you to room with. You'll be easy."

He wasn't really listening, only nodding and watching the rooms pass by, with the people in it.

"I loved him, and he didn't love me back! There was nothing left for me to do . . ." He saw a girl crying into her hands yelling. Another patient had his fingers spread over a table, and he maneuvered a knife in between them quickly. Most of the doors were shut, but John still could hear the trauma going on inside.

"Am I the only normal person here?" He asked the woman leading him. "Everyone eventually becomes normal Doctor. Its just a matter of time." John nodded, as if he actually understood anything going on around him.

"Are these people. . . crazy?" He asked her. Of course they were. All of them had something wrong, twinky about them. The woman laughed. "We all are, after what they went through, it's hard to be normal."

_After all, this is a rehabilitation center. _John thought to himself as they continued walking. He couldn't decide if he was safe or not. If this was a safe place at all. With all these conflicted people here, screaming, shaking. Anything could happen.

"Okay. Here's some medication to help with your migraine, for now I would just lay down, get some more rest and try to remember what happened before you came here." John nodded and took the pills in her hand.

"I'll do my best, doctor." He told her this while staring down at the orange pills. "Don't worry. They certainly won't kill you." She said smiling, and walking off. John swallowed, and closed his hand into a fist.

"We'll see about that," He muttered as he walked back to his bed. He noticed quite a few of the other beds were now bodiless, and some had patients awake. John didn't think anything of it, just laid down on his bed and swallowed the two pills.

"I saw you in Afghanistan."


End file.
